The Gladiator
by Marphisa
Summary: Guinevere is obviously of some importance to the Woads. How, then, did she get captured by Marius? What was she doing so close to his villa, or were his soldiers specifically looking for her? What does a gladiator have to do with any of this?
1. First Encounters

The villa of Marius Honorius was a grand thing considering it sat not on a street in Rome but on a plain in the countryside of the far-flung Roman province of Albion. It was walled to separate the haughty Roman nobleman from the Britons who labored on his lands. The walls also served for protection from the Britons' less accommodating kin, the Woads, who occasionally attacked the manor.

Of course, Marius liked to think the Woads were too frightened to attack his manor. They feared his papal granted authority over them, he believed. To prove his supremacy, he had even had a Woad captured and broken to serve his as a gladiator in his small private arena.

This was a fact Marius was quite proud of, and he finally had an opportunity to show off his prize. Demetrius, the son of an old friend of his, had come to visit. Visitors in the frontier of Albion were rare, but the adventurous youth took the opportunity to travel. So determined was he to prove himself a man of the world, he traveled not only with the usual contingent of guards but also his own gladiator.

Marius and Demetrius now sat in the opulent box of Marius's small personal arena. The few benches surrounding the arena were dotted with Marius's off duty guards and the few Briton peasants willing to watch the upcoming spectacle.

"My young friend, I've had two Woads caught so you may see how fierce these creatures are. Perhaps you would like to let your gladiator take care of them?" Marius graciously offered.

Marius was really rather curious as to whether or not Demetrius' gladiator had any new tricks or styles from Rome to show off. He had but two gladiators himself: the captive Woad and a professional gladiator he had brought with him from Rome. They rarely even fought each other because of the risk Marius ran of loosing one of them. What good was a single gladiator in this wilderness where another opponent would be hard to find?

The two Woads in question were forced out into the arena at Marius's command. One was only a boy. The other was a woman, young though fierce, if her reaction to the guards' handling was any indication.

"Are the Woads really such fierce warriors," Demetrius asked, "that my gladiator is needed to kill a woman and a child?"

Secretly, Demetrius hoped Marius would let his archers take care of the Woads. His gladiator had been purchased quite cheaply because she was unruly. It was not that she refused to fight. She was quite able to hold her own in the arena, but she did not "murder innocents," as she had so bravely told Demetrius when he purchased her. The marks on her back prove what the merchant had told him: her past owners had tried and failed to beat the stubbornness out of her.

"I am a gladiator," she had said, "not a murder. I will not murder innocents."

Demetrius had no desire to be shamed before his fellow Roman. He hoped he could persuade Marius to let his gladiator fight the other gladiators or soldiers without doing them the honor of killing the Woads first.

"Yes, the Woads are very fierce," Marius answered, "so fierce, in fact, that we could not capture one of the men alive on such short notice. I had one captured to be a gladiator here in my arena, but that took nearly a year to do. I am told the woman is a warrior, though. Your gladiator should be able to get a good fight from her."

"Marius, my father's friend, I must confess. My gladiator is particular. You see, my journeying has cost quite a bit. The gladiator was not expensive because she will not kill those who are not gladiators. She will not kill an unarmed person simply because I tell her to do so."

"You allow this insubordination?" Marius questioned.

"What can I do? I've threatened her with death; she cares not."

"Let my gladiators deal with her if she refuses. The will do more than threaten her with death. We can have a real bout then."

Marius's obvious delight only served to irritate Demetrius. He was quite sure his host would not have been so happy about a fight to the death if it were his only gladiator facing death. That gladiator was money, fairly spent by Demetrius, and he was about to loose it because he could not let Marius think he would let his gladiator set her own rules.

Not wishing to squabble about matters of money and discipline with Marius, Demetrius was left with no choice but to agree with him. "As you say, she'll come around when truly facing death," Demetrius agreed with little conviction. "Julius," he continued to the captain of his guard contingent, "have Kafka sent into the ring."

With a nod, Julius jogged away. As he returned, Demetrius' gladiator was lead into the ring. By the time her chains had been removed and her weapons given to her, Julius was back at Demetrius' side.

Kafka glanced around the small arena as Marius's guards left. She saw no opponents. What she did see was an unarmed woman who appeared to be hiding or protecting a child. Surely, they were not who she was expected to fight.

"Kafka," Demetrius called, interrupting the gladiator's examination of the two. "These people are Woads. They are a race of warriors, barbarians from this island. See what kind of show you can get from the woman." He sincerely hoped Kafka, for once, would do as she was told.

"She is unarmed," Kafka calmly noted.

"Do as I command," Demetrius shouted back.

"I'll not murder innocents, Demetrius. You know this."

Demetrius flushed at the audacity of his gladiator to call him by name and refuse his commands before another nobleman.

Marius stood, though, as Kafka continued to refuse. "If you refuse to obey your master, my gladiators will kill you," he threatened.

"I'll not murder them," Kafka answered.

"My gladiators will," Marius answered. "Then they will kill you."

"I'll not murder them, nor will I let them _be_ murdered."

"If they survive the fight, they can go free," Demetrius called, desperate to end the humiliating discussion.

"What a novel idea. Yes, I agree. If the Woad's survive the fight, they may go free," Marius agreed, with a smile.

"Wait," the Woad woman called.

Every head in the arena whipped toward the woman. She had spoken in Latin. Her words were heavily accented, and the grammar was rough, but the words had been spoken in Latin. It was widely assumed that the Woads did not know Latin.

"If we go free, she goes free," the Woad called. "She fights for us, she lives with us. It is right."

"As she says," Marius yelled, caught up in the excitement of this unexpected bout. "This will be a good fight," he laughed to Demetrius. For his part, Demetrius was unhappy. It seemed either way, he would loose his gladiator.

"Tell your men to try not to kill Kafka," he murmured. "She cost me money, and I want to keep her as long as I can."

"Better no gladiator than one who will not obey orders," Marius muttered back.

As the Romans were talking, Kafka advanced to speak to the Woad woman. "Are you a warrior? Can you defend yourself and the boy?" she demanded.

"Woads are warriors," the woman answered grimly.

"Good enough," Kafka muttered. "Stay at the far end of the arena. You protect the boy; I'll protect you." Kafka marched back toward the center of the arena.

"Wait," the Woad woman called again.

Kafka turned, waiting for the woman to speak.

She pointed to the boy. "Lucan." Then she put her palm to her chest. "Guinevere," she said.

"Kafka," the gladiator answered. With a nod, both women returned to their respective posts to wait the arrival of Marius's gladiators.

"Leonidas," Marius shouted, though whether his words were meant as an introduction or a summons Kafka wasn't sure. What she did know was that a large man armed and armored in the Thracian style entered the arena as Marius spoke. He looked like he planned to enjoy the coming fight.

"Barbarus," Marius called again. Kafka nearly laughed despite the dire situation. Could Marius be any more unimaginative? He could think of no better name for his Woad gladiator than "Barbarian"?

As Kafka snickered to herself, a young man dressed in leather breeches with some strange blue dye staining his chest, face, and arms entered the arena. In Kafka and Guinevere's favor, this one did not look as eager as his companion.

"Sean," Guinevere hissed. She called something else, a single word in her own language, in a louder voice. It sounded decidedly unfriendly, Kafka thought.

She spun to glance at Guinevere. As she looked she noticed the Woad woman was painted with the same blue dye, thought the symbols were different. She also wore leather, though she, thankfully, also had a shirt.

"You know him?" Kafka demanded.

"We thought him dead," Guinevere answered. "Better dead than traitor." The woman glared dangerously at the Woad she had called Sean, and Kafka was half afraid she might attack him right then, unarmed as she was.

Keeping the thought of her possible freedom in the back of her mind, Kafka took a serious and detailed look at her opponents. What she saw did not please her by any stretch. She was outnumbered, but she had known that before her opponents made their appearances. They were both well armed, though the Woad wore no armor. Both appeared to be capable fighters.

"Nothing's going in my favor today," Kafka thought to herself.

The gladiator Marius had called Leonidas was armed in the Thracian style. He wore a broad-brimmed helmet that covered his whole head, thought the face plate had not been closed when he entered the arena. His legs were protected by bronze greaves, and his right arm was covered in bronze armor, though his trunk was left unprotected. In his right hand, he carried a short curved sword, while a small round spiked shield rested on his left arm.

He would have to get in close to do any damage, which could be both good and bad. All Kafka had to do was stay out of his reach and she would be safe. If he did manage to get close, though, he could do some serious damage with both his sword and his shield. He had the advantage of height, weight, and protection on his side. Kafka did have the advantage of knowing how Thracian gladiators fought, though.

The Woad was a variable that greatly displeased Kafka. She knew nothing of his fighting style. He carried two short swords, and Kafka hoped she couuld treat him as she would any other dimachaeri. With any luck, though, he would miraculously sprout a conscience and decide not to attack someone protecting two of his fellow Woads. Considering her luck so far today, Kafka rather doubted such a thing would be happening for her.

Kafka, for her part, fought with little armor. The weight would have slowed her down. She had little chance of being as strong as the mostly male gladiators she fought, and her real advantages were her speed and agility. She wore no helmet. She did have a light leather breastplate, which Demetrius had seen fit to have dyed black. He had said it was more intimidating. A piece of bronze armor covered her left arm from wrist to elbow, serving in place of a shield.

Kafka fought two handed, using variations on the many formal styles of the Roman gladiators. She carried a long sword in her right hand as an offensive weapon. It gave her reach which she otherwise would not have had. In her left hand, she held a half-sword in a reversed position to serve as a defensive weapon. This way, no matter whether she needed to stab up or down, in or out, she had a blade pointed in that direction.

Both of Kafka's opponents would have to be fairly close to inflict damage. That meant she could keep track of where they were relatively easily, making sure they did not sneak past her to attack the Woads. To be sure, though, that Guinevere and Lucan were safe, Kafka turned as her opponents advanced and tossed her half-sword to Guinevere.

"Protect the boy," she called again, as she turned, half-crouched, back toward the advancing gladiators.

Leonidas was quite easy to keep track of: his heavy footsteps gave him away. Sean, on the other hand, moved almost soundlessly across the sand of the arena floor.

"I've got to take care of him first," Kafka decided.

The two other gladiators were beginning to circle Kafka, trying, she thought, to get behind her. Deciding to take matters into her own hands, Kafka rushed Sean. The Woad caught her down-sweeping blow on both of his blades.

As she was engaged with Sean, Kafka heard Leonidas's footsteps pounding past them toward Guinevere and Lucan. Kafka growled at having been so easily passed. She disengaged from Sean and swung her long blade with startling speed at his head. Sean kicked out at her arm, and she hit him squarely in the face with the flat of her blade.

Leaving the dazed Woad on the ground, Kafka sprinted to catch Leonidas. She hoped to catch him from behind, surprising him. Leonidas heard her, though, and turned, swinging his spiked shield with all his might.

"Whoa," Kafka shouted as she ducked, stumbling backwards a few steps. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sean running toward Guinevere and Lucan. She growled under her breath.

"He's mine," Guinevere shouted. She stepped to meet Sean already yelling at him in their own tongue.

"Protect the boy," Kafka shouted back, fearful that Guinevere might leave Lucan unprotected in favor of chasing down Sean.

Leonidas had pounced before Kafka had stopped speaking. Again, Kafka leapt out of the way of a blow that would have severed her head. Unfortunately, the edge of Leonidas's shield followed his sword. It caught Kafka in the right bicep as she regained her feet.

"I need that arm," she shouted at Leonidas as she staggered away. She had only gone a few steps when she whirled, sword fully extended, hoping to take a surprised Leonidas fully across the chest. Leonidas caught the blow on his shield, but the blade slid off, biting deeply into this forearm.

As Kafka and Leonidas tried their very best to kill each other, Guinevere was trying her very best to talk Sean out of killing her and Lucan.

"I always win, Sean. You know that," she yelled.

"Not here, Guin. You can't beat all of them."

"Not alone, but you could help us."

"They'll kill all of us, Guin. It's just a question of when and how. I promise I will make it quick," Sean said.

He dodged right, putting Guinevere slightly off balance, before striking. Both of his swords sang as they flew toward Guinevere's head. She ducked, coming up close to Sean, inside his guard.

"I don't want to kill another Woad," she yelled. Even as she spoke, though, she ripped a great gash across his right calf.

With a cry, Sean fell. Satisfied that she and Lucan were not in immediate danger and driven by a wish not to have to kill Sean, she retreated closer to Lucan, letting Sean gain his feet.

He staggered up, favoring his right leg. His pained eyes locked on to Guinevere. "You will die to day, Guin," he said solemnly.

Without his shield, Leonidas was pressing attacks on Kafka without pause. His plan was solid. If he could keep her on the defense and unable to press any attacks of her own, eventually, she would make a mistake. Of course, Kafka knew this too.

Instead of catching his next blow on her sword, Kafka sidestepped the blade's downward arc. She danced backwards a step, finally getting into a position to use her blade's longer reach to her advantage. The fight would have been over quickly if Sean had not tackled Kafka from behind.

Kafka found herself lying in the sand with Sean still hanging on to her lower legs. She bucked wildly, managing to lever Sean off her legs. She slammed her sword into the sand, barely missing Sean's leg as he scrambled away.

"Get back here," she yelled. She dove after him, sword extended. The tip of her blade ripped into his lower right leg, hamstringing him.

Sean turned, pain and rage fueling his strength, and drove one sword straight into the sand. He missed Kafka's chest driving the point between her chest and her left arm, tearing matching gashes on the side of her ribcage and the inside of her arm.

She pulled her leg nearly to her chest and kicked Sean full in the face. He reeled away from her, leaving his sword embedded in the sand. He shouted something in his own language. His voice was muffled, and Kafka was satisfied to hear that his nose was broken.

Leonidas was right behind Kafka as she staggered to her feet holding her injured ribs. He brought the hilt of his sword down, aiming to crush the back of Kafka's unprotected head. Sensing someone behind her, Kafka ducked back down. Leonidas's swing went wide, and he caught Kafka's left shoulder blade instead of her head. She hit the sand of the arena floor hard.

She crawled away and staggered to her feet again. She wheeled her sword about violently to keep Leonidas and Sean at bay. Leonidas trusted his armor, though, and rushed Kafka after her first swing. He tried to bash her with his shield.

Kafka raised her left arm to block the blow. She caught his shield, but Leonidas stepped closer, using his size and strength to force her arm down. The spike affixed to the front of the shield penetrated the top of Kafka's left thigh.

Kafka screamed. She pulled her blade as far back as she could. Despite the lack of strength from the awkward angle, she thrust her sword forward. She rammed half the length of her blade into Leonidas's left shoulder.

He shouted and all but threw her away from him. Kafka landed roughly and scrambled to her feet. Luckily for her, Sean was hobbled by his wounds and could not attack her. Leonidas, though, bounded quickly back to his feet, charging at Kafka.

"This is bad," Kafka muttered to herself.

She raised her sword to fend him off. Leonidas struck Kafka's sword so hard, it fell from her hand. He brought the hilt of his sword up into her face, knocking her to the ground. Kafka spit a mouthful of blood onto the sand, but was utterly unable to get back to her feet. Leonidas kicked her onto her back as she tried to rise.

This was it. She had no weapon. Her head was spinning, and she couldn't see right. The gash across her ribs was bleeding freely. The puncture wound in her leg was pumping blood sluggishly. She was about to die.

Leonidas raised his sword for the death blow. Kafka endeavored to compose herself for the final blow. Running footstep approached from behind Leonidas, but neither gladiator paid them any attention.

As Leonidas began his downswing, though, the tip of Kafka's half-sword appeared from the center of Leonidas's chest. With a strangled groan, he crumpled. Behind him stood Guinevere, holding Kafka's half-sword.

"Look out," Kafka shouted. She had seen Sean approaching from over Guinevere's shoulder. She snatched up Leonidas's sword and dove blindly forward. She came to rest pressing the hilt of the sword to Sean's chest.

Letting the sword drop from her fingers, Kafka flopped onto her back before trying to get to her feet. With the adrenaline of the fight gone and the loss of blood from her various wounds, finding her feet was a struggle. Her wounded leg buckled under her as she rose, and she crashed to her knees. Guinevere and Lucan ran to her side: and, using Kafka's relatively unscathed right arm, Guinevere pulled her to her feet.

"You can walk?" she asked.

"Mostly," Kafka answered. "I don't know that I'll be that way for long, though."

Marius and Demetrius seemed understandably amazed that Kafka had won. They were also furious, though for different reasons. Marius had just lost both of his gladiators. Demetrius, on the other hand, was about to be forced to let his only gladiator go free.

"Will you agree to let us go?" Kafka called weakly.

Demetrius' reply was grudging at best. "You will be dead of your wounds before you loose sight of this place," he called. "You are free, though."

He tossed a wooden sword into the arena. It was carved with Demetrius' personal crest on both sides of the blade. This was Kafka's symbol of freedom, should she survive to appreciate it.

"Guards," Marius called. "Get them out of here."

Several soldiers pounded into the arena and hustled Guinevere, Lucan, and Kafka out. They continued to herd the captives until they had reached the outskirts of the fields and huts that surrounded Marius's villa. The soldiers stopped at the edge of the village, but continued to watch until the trio had staggered into the woods.


	2. Wounds and Woads

A/N: My plan was to have this story written and posted very quickly. My grandmother died recently, though, and I haven't had much time to devote to writing. I think I'm back now, though.

Much thanks to those who reviewed or otherwise showed interest in this story.

The trio made their way deeper into the forest. Kafka relied more and more heavily on Guinevere's support the further they walked. By the time they had gone a half a league, Guinevere was the only reason Kafka was still on her feet. When Kafka's wounded leg gave out completely, though, Guinevere eased her to the ground.

"I can go no further," she breathed. "My strength is spent."

"No," Guinevere answered succinctly. "Further on we find my people."

"Guinevere," Kafka said hesitantly. The name was most certainly of this small isle; Kafka had never heard its like and was not certain she had said it right.

Guinevere smiled and nodded in recognition, even though Kafka's pronunciation was odd. She could tell Kafka meant to argue, but she refused to let the gladiator who had fought for her life and the life of her little cousin to die so close to help.

"Further," Guinevere said, her tone brooking no arguments.

"I'll try," Kafka agreed, though she doubted they would get much further before her wounds and blood loss halted them more permanently.

Guinevere spoke to Lucan in their own language. "Lucan, can you run ahead and try to find someone? There should be scouts within half a league. If you find someone, say that Kafka is hurt very badly and we need help. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Lucan agreed solemnly.

Guinevere rose from kneeling to talk to Lucan.

Kafka glanced questioningly at the boy as he ran.

"He finds help," Guinevere explained. She helped Kafka to her feet as Lucan ran further into the ancient forest. Kafka leaned even more heavily on Guinevere, slowing their pace to a mere shuffle.

As they walked, Guinevere continually murmured support and encouragement. Kafka did not respond, but she continued to move. They stopped to rest only when Kafka collapsed again.

"My people are close. I know this," Guinevere encouraged.

"My wounds are grave, Guinevere," Kafka said faintly. "It won't matter if I die here or with your people."

"Merlin will heal you," Guinevere explained. "You must see him."

Kafka only smiled thinly in response. She knew nothing of this Merlin, but she had seen many wounds in her time as a gladiator. If she lost only a little movement in her right arm, she would be lucky. The puncture in her left thigh may or may not keep her from walking again. She would almost certainly have a limp for the rest of her life, provided she lived long enough for her leg to heal.

Guinevere had just hauled Kafka back to her feet, all but carrying her this time, when Lucan and a middle-aged man came running through the trees. The man was huge, much taller than either Kafka or Guinevere; barrel-chested; and carrying a sword.

"Here," Guinevere called. "We're here."

The man ran to the two and wrapped Guinevere in a great bear hug, almost knocking Kafka over in the process. "We thought you were dead," he growled in the Woad tongue.

"Lugh," Guinevere exclaimed. "I'm alright. Kafka's hurt, though. We need to get her to Merlin."

Lugh released Guinevere to glance at Kafka. "Why should we help a Roman?" he asked.

"She saved me and Lucan," Guinevere answered.

"Not Roman," Kafka muttered at the same time.

"And she's not a Roman," Guinevere added. "Come, Lugh, help me get her to Merlin. He is her only hope."

Lugh hesitated for a moment before deciding that saving Guin and Lucan combined with not being a Roman was reason enough not to leave Kafka to die. He picked her up to carry her to the village. As he lifted her, though, he lifted Kafka's wounded right arm over his head to rest around his neck. The movement reopened the wound across her ribs, and she cried out once before her eyes shut and her body went limp.

Guinevere frantically checked to see that Kafka was still alive, finding her only unconscious. "We must hurry," she said firmly.

Lugh hurried as quickly as he could through the forest with his burden. Guinevere and Lucan went in front of him to hold aside branches and smooth his passage as much as possible. The foursome soon broke out of the forest into a small clearing which was home to the Woad village they sought.

"Merlin. Father," Guinevere called, running into the heart of the village as Lugh followed more slowly.

A man, wiry and aged, stepped from one of the huts near the center of the village. His face showed both age and a certain vigor. He seemed full of paradoxes.

"Guinevere," he exclaimed when he saw her.

She ran to him, wrapping him in a firm embrace. He returned it with frank affection. As they embraced, he noticed Lugh, with his burden, standing behind Guinevere.

"What is this?" he rasped.

"Father, Kafka saved Lucan and me from the Roman. He wanted us killed, and she fought to save us. She was badly wounded. Please, you have to save her."

Merlin nodded and motioned quickly to Lugh.

"Bring her in," he instructed. Lugh stepped into Merlin's hut as Guinevere held aside the curtain that served as a door. "Lay her here," Merlin ordered, indicating a pallet across from the door.

Lugh put Kafka down and retreated from Merlin's hut. All of the Woads respected Merlin and the skills and powers he wielded. For some, that respect bordered on fear. Very few indeed would have been willing to remain to watch Merlin practice his healing skills.

Guinevere left with Lugh, but soon returned with water. She used a pair of sticks to pull stones from the fire that always burned in front of Merlin's hut. She dropped the stones in the water she had brought, effectively heating it.

"Help me with this, Guinevere," Merlin called from inside his hut. Guinevere left the water to heat and stepped to Merlin's side. Merlin had been trying to remove Kafka's breastplate; but, with her unconscious, he needed Guinevere to remove the armor while he steadied Kafka's dead weight.

"It's a clean cut," Guinevere observed as she set aside Kafka's armor. Merlin hummed in response.

While Guinevere was retrieving the warmed water, Merlin produced a dagger. With it, her further cut Kafka's under tunic to reveal the area around her gash in her side.

"Wash this while I work," Merlin instructed Guinevere. He turned to gather several herbs, some dried and some fresh. He crushed the herbs before adding enough water to make a paste.

He moved back to Kafka's side. Guinevere had already threaded a needle for Merlin to use to close the gashes on Kafka's chest and arm.

"See to her leg while I stitch this," Merlin ordered.

Guinevere did as asked, cutting a hole in Kafka's pants as she worked. Guinevere washed away the blood from Kafka's leg wound to get a good look at it. Blood still pumped sluggishly from the hole, despite Guinevere's efforts to stop the bleeding.

"There's too much blood," she called to Merlin. He left Kafka's side and peered at the puncture in her leg. He sighed.

"Heat a knife," he said quietly.

While the knife blade heated in the fire, Merlin continued to stitch Kafka's other wounds. He leaned close to Kafka's side, muttering under his breath as he worked. "Hand me that," he said to Guinevere. She silently passed him the herbal mixture as he cut the last thread. He smeared the mixture on both of the closed wounds.

When he was finished with that, he moved to peel the bandages Guinevere had packed against Kafka's leg back. The wound was still bleeding. "Bring the knife," Merlin commanded. Wincing at the pain she knew the procedure would cause, Guinevere did as she was told.

Merlin gingerly took the knife and used the glowing blade to seal the puncture wound in Kafka's left leg. As soon as the blade contacted Kafka's wound, she sat completely upright. A cry worse than any she had voiced in the arena tore from her throat. She reached instinctively to remove Merlin's knife, but Guinevere grabbed her hands.

"Kafka, he's trying to help. Calm down. Let him work," she commanded.

Kafka only cried out again, though she did not continue to fight. Merlin worked quickly and had soon sealed, salved, and bandaged Kafka's wounded leg. Kafka remained conscious, though passive, throughout the rest of his work.

When he was finished, Merlin turned to Guinevere. "I think the gladiator would not like me to undress her. Bandage her wound; you know what to do," he said as he turned to leave.

"Wait," Guinevere called. "Her arm was hurt. Will you look at it?" She pointed to Kafka's right bicep, which had already darkened to an ugly purple. "Merlin will help your arm," she informed Kafka in Latin.

Merlin carefully prodded the area. His eyes glazed over as he concentrated on what his hands felt instead of what he was seeing. "It's not broken," he announced. "It will hurt for a long time, though. He produced a pot of salve, slathering Kafka's bruised arm with the aromatic slime.

"Bandage her up," he instructed as he left. "She will live."

"You will not die, he said," Guinevere told Kafka.

Kafka just nodded and slumped back onto the pallet and let Guinevere do as she wished.

Guinevere was pleased by her father's prediction. She had dearly hoped that Kafka would not have to sacrifice her life to secure their freedom. Being a warrior herself, Guinevere would have been ashamed had another warrior did for her freedom.


	3. Belonging

A/N: Another chapter, way behind schedule, which was on purpose to heighten your curiosity. OK, that last part's not true. I do hope ya'll like it anyway.

The next several weeks were some of the longest of Kafka's life. Guinevere and Merlin kept her confined to Merlin's hut, though she did not have the strength to leave no matter how much she may have wanted to do so. Kafka was utterly unwilling to admit her weakness and spent a good deal of time begging to be allowed out.

The only thing that kept Kafka sane was Guinevere's kind offer to teach her the language of the Woads. In return, Kafka helped Guinevere further her grasp of Latin. By the time Kafka was at last allowed out of Merlin's hut, she could communicate effectively if not fluently in the Woad's language. By the same time, Guinevere's Latin was nearly flawless, though her accent persisted.

Merlin's medicines had worked wonders in Kafka's opinion. The gashes on her side and arm had healed well. She had kept most of the movement in her arm; she would still be able to fight with her right arm. She still walked with a limp. Her left leg was healing well, but it still gave her trouble on occasion.

As her leg healed, Kafka was allowed to make short ventures out of Merlin's hut. She became more familiar with the structure of life with the Woads. No laws governed a person's place in their society, and the only honors given a person were earned.

Kafka was most impressed by the authority Merlin clearly exercised over the rest of the Woads. He was clearly in charge without dominating his people. She asked Guinevere about the governing structure of the Woads one day as they strolled through the forest on the outskirts of the village.

"Your father seems to have a great deal of sway over your people, Guin. Is he your king?" Kafka asked.

She spoke in the Woad language, giving herself a chance to exercise and expand her rapidly growing vocabulary.

Guinevere frowned in thought. "We have no king. Merlin is our elder; that is what we call him. He is the wisest; our people trust him most. He leads us."

She glanced at Kafka, hoping her explanation had been clear enough.

"No law demands your people obey Merlin, but they find he knows what's best to do," Kafka said.

"Exactly," Guinevere said with a grin.

They paused to rest as they wandered deeper into the forest. Kafka's wounds were healing well, but she still tired easily. She had begged to be allowed out as soon as possible to begin building up her stamina again.

She continued her questioning, as she and Guinevere sat at the base of a great oak.

"Does your father's position give you authority?"

"No," Guinevere said quickly. "I command warriors, but I earned that privilege on my own merit."

"You're young to command warriors. What did you do to earn such a privilege?" Kafka asked.

Guinevere looked off into the forest as she began to relate the story. "We had ambushed a caravan of new legionnaires. The man in charge of our group had been killed almost as soon as the attack started. No one would give orders; we were being slaughtered. I called for a retreat; the others just followed my lead.

"I had only done what I thought was best. Father had taught me much about battles and fighting, and I could tell we needed to flee before we were all killed. When it came time to replace our leader, the rest of the warriors suggested me for the post. I could hardly refuse it."

Kafka nodded and rose to continue their walk.

"If you are a leader of warriors and the daughter of your people's elder, how did you find yourself in Marius's arena—with your little cousin, no less?"

It was only when Kafka had voiced her thought, that she realized how rude it sounded. She risked a sheepish look at Guinevere who was looking off into the forest. Taking Guinevere's turned away face as a sign that her question had not been well received, Kafka stuttered out an apology.

"Please forget I said that, Guin."

Guinevere turned back toward her, and Kafka could see she was chuckling. "I'm sorry, Kafka. That is almost exactly what my father said after we got back to the village. I'm not offended."

Kafka breathed a sigh of relief.

"The Roman likes his blood sport," Guinevere continued. "He's had his soldiers capture my people to fight in his arena. They had not hunted us in a very long time, though. I can only assume he was satisfied with breaking Sean."

Guinevere paused at the thought of her fellow Woad, whom Kafka had slain in Marius's arena. She shook her head and continued her story.

"It was foolish of me to take Lucan out into the forest alone, but I did. I was teaching him to track animals, and I wasn't paying attention to the forest. The Romans had laid an ambush, waiting for any Woad who came along. When they revealed themselves, there were far too many of them for me to fight while protecting Lucan. We were forced to surrender."

"Marius must have been planning for Demetrius' visit," Kafka observed.

"And you," Guinevere said, shaking off the melancholy that had descended with the utterance of Sean's name. "What is your story? How did you end up in Marius's arena?"

Kafka grinned sheepishly. "It's a fair question." She paused a moment to consider her answer. "My father was a warrior of the Gauls. I was a passable fighter when the Romans came, but the elders said I was too young to fight. Their decision is the only reason I am still alive. The Romans killed all the warriors who fought them that day. Those who didn't fight were taken as slaves." Kafka laughed. It was a harsh sound, conveying no joy. "Because Rome is merciful to her people, they said.

"I fought the Romans every step in every way I could. They sold me at the first town of any size that we came across. They practically gave me away. I was sold as a gladiator to a retired centurion, and he sold me to the governor of the province. Demetrius bought me from him only a few months ago."

Guinevere's voice was soft and her eyes sympathetic as she inquired about Kafka's tribe. "Your family? The rest of your people?"

"I had no family left. My mother was already dead when the Romans came, and they killed my father and brother," Kafka said quietly. "The others from my village could be anywhere—those who are still alive."

"The Romans are brutal with the people they conquer," Guinevere observed. "That's why we will fight to the death to run them from our isle."

Guinevere's mention of death reminded Kafka of her own brush with death and brought to mind something she had been meaning to speak to Guinevere about. She stopped walking and waited until Guinevere turned to look at her.

"I wish to practice an ancient tradition of my people, Guin. Will you let me?" she asked solemnly.

A perplexed frown wrinkled Guinevere's brow. "Why do you ask my permission? Merlin is the one you should ask, though I do not doubt he will grant you the favor if he can."

Kafka was not sure how to phrase her question and hesitated a moment to think. "It would involve you, and you have to agree to it before I can talk to Merlin," she explained.

"Would you care to explain this tradition?"

"I am free now, Guin. I know I am not a slave. I'm not a Roman; I'd rather kill myself than be Roman. But I don't know what I am any more," Kafka said vehemently.

"I cannot go back to my people; they no longer exist. Those who are even still alive are slaves scattered throughout the empire. Where do I go? What do I do?

"You have to understand that these are question for which I must find an answer."

"You've avoiding the question," Guinevere stated flatly.

"No!" Kafka barked. "I'm coming at it from a different way. You have to follow me, or I know you'll refuse my request."

"You're being vague, and it's making me suspicious," Guinevere warned.

"Guin, I have no place in the world any more; or, if I do, I don't know what it is. Do you have any idea how disconcerting that is?"

"No, I don't." Guinevere had always been secure in who she was. She was the daughter of Merlin, warrior of the Woads. She had never been anything else, and she never wanted to be anything else. She could not imagine having that knowledge and certainty taken from her. She truly pitied Kafka's position in life.

"You have to tell me what this ritual is, though, Kafka. Why is it so important to you?"

"Considering you've already been captured by the Romans once, I think this my ritual is amazingly appropriate. According to our ancient law, because you saved my life, I am honor-bound to swear my life to protecting you."

"No," Guinevere said shortly. "I will not allow it."

"I do not know where to go or what to do, but the one thing I do know is that I must fight the Romans. They cannot be allowed to conquer and enslave unhindered. It may be the way of the world, but I do not have to accept it. What better way to fight them than to protect one of the leaders of their great enemy on this island?" Kafka argued.

"Kafka, you don't have to make yourself my protector to fight the Romans. My people will welcome you without demanding such a sacrifice."

"Please, Guinevere, understand what I am asking you. I'm asking you for another favor. I need a place among your people as much as I need to repay my debt to you."

"I understand that you need to belong, Kafka; but there must be some other way," Guinevere reasoned.

Kafka flashed a glare at Guinevere. "I will accept no other way. This is good for everyone. You obviously need someone to keep an eye on you. I need someone to keep an eye on. Honor is satisfied all around. Please allow me this."

Guinevere glanced at Kafka's pleading face. "You won't let me say no?"

"No. Don't make me beg either. It would be embarrassing for both of us," Kafka warned.

"You have to promise not to take yourself too seriously,"

Kafka gazed impassively at Guinevere. "Guin," was all she said.

"We can glare at each other for a very long time," Guinevere warned.

"Alright," Kafka relented.

"You know, we have rituals, too," Guinevere told Kafka after a pause.

"What kind of rituals?"

"For the adopting of protectors. You would have to abide by those rituals or my people would not recognize your position," Guinevere warned.

Guinevere continued. "We should be head back. You're tiring; I can tell."

Kafka was surprised by the sudden change of subject. Her surprise quickly turned to muted outrage. Guinevere was right; she was reaching the end of her returning strength. Kafka was outraged that Guinevere was able to tell.

"If I promise not to argue, will you tell me about these rituals?" she bargained.

Guinevere agreed with a grin.

"Well?" Kafka prodded after a few minutes of walking in silence.

"An omen is required to connect the protector and the one to be protected," Guinevere began.

"I should think our encounter in Marius's arena would serve as omen enough," Kafka observed dryly.

"You could be right," Guinevere agreed. "Usually, you would then be required to prove your ability as a warrior to protect me; but you've already saved my live once. After proving yourself, you would give your oath to protect me. Once you give your oath, you will be required to take the tattoos of a Woad protector."

"Is that all? I don't mind," Kafka assured her. "Warriors who are of age among my people are tattooed. I will consider this my warrior's mark."

"I still say this is completely unnecessary," Guinevere objected.

"And I say it is the least I can do. You've already agreed to it; I won't let you refuse me now."

"Very well," Guinevere sighed.

Merlin was pleased to grant Kafka's request. It really did serve to please many. Guinevere would adopt a protector. Kafka would gain a place among the Woads. Merlin's advisors agreed that Kafka had proven herself a worthy protector and a worthy addition to their ranks.

Everything had been prepared and the ceremony would take place as soon as full dark fell. Until then, Kafka remained in seclusion in Guinevere's hut. When the sun had set and the moon had risen, the Woads gathered at a great bonfire in the center of the village. At a signal from Merlin, Lugh fetched Kafka. She was led to the fire where the ritual would take place.

Merlin, wearing fresh woad dye and carrying a gnarled staff, presided over the ceremony. He stood forth, close to the fire, and raised his hands and staff.

"My people," he called. "You have met Kafka. She saved Guinevere and Lucan. She has proven her worth as a warrior. Now, she wishes to be adopted as Guinevere's protector. What say you?"

The gathered Woads showed their approval. Over the weeks Kafka had spent with the Woads, her story had spread. All the Woads knew where she had come from and how she had come to be in their village. Most of them had no quarrel with her once they found out she was not Roman and had no love for the Romans.

"Come here, Kafka," Merlin said.

Kafka advanced to stand before Merlin. She wore her leather breastplate, which had been repaired, along with the rest of her armor. Considering she was not officially a Woad yet, none of the sacred dye had been applied to her skin.

Merlin motioned to Guinevere, who stood beside him.

"Guinevere," he intoned. "You wish to adopt Kafka as your protector?"

"Yes, Merlin."

"Kafka," he intoned. "You wish to be adopted as Guinevere's protector?"

"Yes, I do," she answered.

"Make your oath," Merlin instructed.

"I, Kafka of Gaul, warrior, gladiator, swear to protect Guinevere of the Woads with my life if necessary," Kafka said shortly.

Guinevere spoke as she was expected to do. "I, Guinevere of the Woads, daughter of Merlin, accept the oath of Kafka of Gaul and adopt her as my protector."

Merlin nodded and stepped forward once more. He now carried a bowl containing woad, which he handed to Kafka. As she held the bowl, Merlin dipped his fingers in the dye. He drew curves and spirals in twining patterns on Kafka's face.

"You are now a Woad," Merlin announced when he was finished.

Merlin turned and led the way away from the fire. Kafka and Guinevere followed. They would be the only ones present at this last part of the ritual.

"Sit here," Merlin instructed Kafka, pointing to a stool placed close to his personal fire. Kafka obeyed as Merlin gathered his tools to tattoo the agreed upon symbols. Guinevere seated herself comfortably near the door. She would witness this part of the ritual, but what would happen was really between Merlin and Kafka.

Merlin silently approached Kafka with his tools. She sat stoically. She had been told that she was not to speak during this part of the ritual.

Kafka bit her lip and tightened her grip on the bowl of woad she still held as Merlin began work on her sword arm. Protector's tattoos were always put on the sword arm, Merlin had told her. He started by tattooing Guinevere's personal mark on the outside of Kafka's shoulder. This was followed by flowing curves and spiked circles that closely mirrored the design painted on Kafka's face. When Merlin was finished, swirls and circles twined over Kafka's shoulder and upper arm.

"Shall I continue?" Merlin asked when he had finished Kafka's arm.

Merlin had shown Kafka the design he said was her personal mark. She could let him stop with the protector's tattoos on her arm, or she could receive her personal mark between her shoulder blades as other Woads did when they came of age.

Not sure whether or not she could speak, Kafka nodded. Though her arm blazed with pain from Merlin's ministrations, she would take her personal mark. She had not received her warrior's mark when she was with her own people. This mark of belonging would serve to link her with her old people and her new people.

False dawn was lighting the sky when Merlin finished Kafka's personal mark. Kafka was exhausted and in pain, but she was greatly pleased. Not only had she been granted the honor of protecting Guinevere, she had been adopted into the tribe. After five years, she was again a part of a community, a member of a family.


	4. Choices

Despite Kafka's protests that she was perfectly well, Merlin and Guinevere forced her to take her ease for two weeks more before she was declared healed. After her forced rest, Kafka was finally allowed to accompany Guinevere on her various scouting missions and hunting trips; and nothing could have pleased her more.

Guinevere and her warriors treated Kafka like any other member of their group. With the exception of her oath to protect Guinevere, Kafka really was no different from the other warriors. She fought, she hunted, she lived just like the rest of them.

It was a bright afternoon seven months after Kafka had become a Woad. Kafka and Lucan had followed Guinevere deep into the forest surrounding the village. It was lesson time again, and both were looking forward to it.

While Guinevere and Kafka both taught Lucan about survival, tracking, and stealth, Kafka's lessons with Guinevere took a slightly different focus. She found herself learning ever more about the island she found herself living on and the different peoples who shared it with her. The more she learned, the more she wanted to learn.

She enjoyed helping Guinevere teach Lucan. The boy was an eager student,

working diligently to remember and master everything he was being taught. He truly wanted to please his patient teachers.

If only he could keep his attention on staying silent. He often forgot himself and called for Guinevere or Kafka to come see what he had done or found. Today was no different, though Lucan did manage to stifle his shout before he got all of Guinevere's name out.

"Yes, Lucan?" she said good-naturedly.

"This looks like someone wearing boots," he announced, pointing at tracks left in the brush.

"How many?" Guinevere asked, peering over his shoulder.

"Four or more?" Lucan guessed.

"That's good," Guinevere agreed. She looked over Lucan's head to Kafka. "When was the last time patrols this big were sent this way?" she asked.

"Not for a fortnight. We've been keeping watch further to the south, nearer the village," Kafka answered, moving closer to see the prints for herself.

Guinevere glanced about at the forest surrounding them as if the people who had left the tracks would step out of the trees. She spoke quietly, frowning at Kafka. "These are fresh—no more than a day old."

A quick glance confirmed Guinevere's words. A heavy rain had fallen two days ago. The tracks they were looking at had been made after the ground had dried out again, which had only been a day ago.

"Is it Romans again?" Lucan asked worriedly.

"No," Kafka said without hesitation. "The sentries would have spotted that many Romans wandering in the forest." She wasn't completely sure she believed herself, but she did not want to frighten the poor boy.

Guinevere nodded her agreement, though she was quite concerned. One encounter with Marius and his arena was enough for one lifetime. She most certainly did not want to be captured again.

"For safety's sake, maybe we should go back to the village," Kafka suggested. She was not fond of an encounter with Romans either.

"But shouldn't we follow the tracks to see who made them?" Lucan asked. He was quite eager to put his newly learned tracking skills to the test.

"Look at the tracks again, Lucan," Kafka instructed. She knelt next to him and put her arm around his shoulders. "You said that at least four people wearing boots came this way. Guinevere and I don't know of any group from the village coming out this far. What do you think that means?"

"We don't know whose tracks these are?" Lucan said impatiently. He knew this already.

"That's right."

"Then we should follow and see who it was," the boy exclaimed.

"What if whoever made these tracks are not friends?"

Lucan did not answer, unsure of what to say.

"There's only three of us," Kafka pointed out. "We're outnumbered by at least one, maybe more."

"So, we can't follow them." Lucan was disappointed.

"Not the three of us," Guinevere answered. "We should gather more warriors and come back. You were right, little one, that we need to find out who was here; but we need to be careful too."

"I won't get to come back with you; will I?"

"Sorry, Lucan. You'll be safer in the village," Guinevere said.

"I can't wait until I'm old enough to fight," the boy grumbled.

Kafka and Guinevere shared a rueful grin over Lucan's head as they all turned to head back to the village. They had only gone a short way when Kafka stopped.

"Guin, what do you hear?" she asked.

Guinevere paused as well, listening. After but a moment, her body tensed and her face registered concern. "I hear nothing—no birds, no animals."

"There's something out there that shouldn't be," Kafka agreed.

"What if it's the people who made those tracks?" Lucan asked, stepping closer to the protection of Guinevere's presence.

"Keep moving," Kafka said, suddenly deadly serious. "If it's people they would have identified themselves if they were friendly. I'll go first."

Kafka moved to the front, pressing toward the village by the most direct route she knew. Lucan followed close behind her, almost running to keep up. Guinevere brought up the rear, dearly wishing she had brought her bow with her.

Kafka slid to such an abrupt halt, Lucan ran into her before he could stop himself.

"Guin," Kafka called, "we have visitors."

Before her, in a small clearing, stood two well-armed Roman soldiers. Guinevere moved around Lucan to stand beside Kafka. As she moved, three more soldiers stepped out of the trees to the rear of their party.

Each man wore a helmet and armor, covering his head, chest, and lower legs. Each carried a large rectangular shield. They all had spears in their hands and short swords hanging from their belts.

Seeing the other soldiers, Guinevere moved back to the rear, standing between the soldiers and Lucan.

Kafka and Guinevere were both woefully unprepared to fight these men. Guinevere carried the short sword and ax she always kept on her belt. Kafka had two swords as close in size and design to her old ones as the Woads had been able to find or make. Both wore comfortable clothes of leather and linen, which would offer no protection against spears or swords.

"We are not alone," Kafka called in Latin. "Five others wait for us up the trail."

The Romans laughed. "You are alone," one of the men standing before Kafka sneered.

"I could call for help and you will all die, or you can leave now," Kafka offered.

"There is no help," the man said. "You will all come with us."

Kafka hesitated for a moment. If she called out for help, there was always a small chance that someone would hear her and come. On the other hand, if she called and no one came, the Romans would know they had no help. At last she spoke.

"If you insist on dying, I won't try to stop you," she told the Roman officer. The man only sneered.

"Lugh, we need help," she shouted in the Woad tongue. She hoped beyond hope that the Romans would flee. "Our friends will be here soon. You should run now," she said politely to the Romans.

The men were eying the forest worriedly, unnerved by Kafka's apparent confidence.

"I think we will wait for your friends to get here," the officer said both to Kafka and to his men.

Kafka shifted her attention from the Romans, trying to appear as confident as possible that help would arrive. "What do we do, Guin?" Kafka said softly in the Woad tongue.

"Lucan, Kafka and I will fight. I need you to run to the village to get help," Guinevere said. She spoke casually, hoping the Romans would not guess their intentions by the tone of her voice. "Kafka?"

"Ready when you are," she answered with a casual smile.

A few more tense moments passed, the Romans becoming more and more sure no more Woads were coming.

"Now," Guinevere screamed, snatching her weapons from her belt and springing at the Romans facing her.

Kafka drew her long sword and crashed headlong into the shields of the unprepared Romans. Lucan sprinted into the trees, away from the fighting, running for much needed help.

Kafka tried to batter one man's shield down, hoping to finish him quickly. He swung the butt of his spear, though, hitting Kafka squarely in the face. She dropped to the ground, shaking her head and scrambling to get away. By the time she staggered to her feet, both Romans had their shields firmly in place and their spears pointed straight at her.

A shout of fear from down the trail drew Kafka's attention. She could hear a scuffle, but the Romans blocked her from investigating the cause. They were trying to back her into a small stand of trees.

Kafka let them back her toward the forest, hoping to gain an advantage where the Romans' spears would be useless. As she edged closer to the stand of trees, though, Kafka heard movement behind her. Without hesitation, she ducked and rolled, hoping to avoid whatever was coming out of the trees.

When she came up, her right leg was tangled in the net that had been thrown from the forest. As she worked to untangle herself, another man, carrying a spear but no shield, ran from the trees. Kafka was now completely surrounded.

"How many of you are there?" she shouted.

She was distracted from any answer they may have made by another soldier marching up the trail with a bundle over his shoulder. It was the bundle that attracted Kafka's attention most since it was really Lucan bound and slung over the man's shoulder.

"Lucan," she shouted, "be still." She was desperately afraid the soldier might hurt him if he caused much trouble. Guinevere, who was also hemmed in by soldiers, turned to see.

"No," she growled. With an unearthly howl, she leapt at the soldier who blocked her way to Lucan. With her sword, she knocked his spear point down and away from her. She buried her ax in his helmet, snatching it back out as she ran by. Another soldier sprang from the forest as she fought; this man carried only a long rope.

Kafka glanced away from her own fight when she heard Guinevere's strangled yell. The man with the rope had looped it around Guinevere's neck, anchoring her as the others moved in to restrain her. Kafka knew exactly the terror such a method invoked. The Romans who had captured her village had subdued her in much the same way.

She turned from her fight to help Guinevere. She had only taken a few steps before fire erupted in her lower back. She gasped and looked down, knowing she had been stabbed with a spear. She saw no blade protruding from her front, though, and was instantly grateful for that small favor.

Shock froze her muscles until the pain melted them altogether, and she sank to the ground, the spearhead slipping painlessly out of her flesh as she fell. The force of landing face first on the hard ground drove a shocked grunt from her lungs. She lay perfectly still for a moment, fighting desperately just to breath.

Over the sound of her own breathing in her ears, Kafka could hear the continuing scuffle between Guinevere and the soldiers. Gritting her teeth against the pain burning from her back, she struggled to stand, to help.

"Marius wanted the gladiator alive," one of the Roman yelled. "See if she can be treated."

One of the soldiers knelt beside Kafka, pushing her back to the ground before pulling her onto her side so he could see her wounds. Kafka groaned through her teeth; the soldier was not gentle. The man pulled her shirt away and used it to wipe at the blood pulsing from her wounded back.

"I don't think this is mortal," the soldier told his commander. "Marius's healer can probably fix this."

Everyone in the clearing was relieved by the soldier's conclusion. The other soldiers were afraid of what Marius might have done to them if they had not been able to bring Kafka back to him alive. Guinevere and Lucan were simply happy to know Kafka was not dead or dying.

Kafka was the only one who was not relieved by the soldier's announcement. She had won her freedom from Demetrius. She had made a life for herself with the Woads. She would rather die than find herself in another arena, expected to fight and kill for a Roman's pleasure.

Kafka floated in a daze of pain as the soldiers fashioned a stretcher on which to carry her. They roughly hefted Kafka onto the completed contraption. Putting to use the sick ingenuity for which they were known throughout the Roman Empire, the soldiers bound Guinevere's hands to the stretcher, forcing her to carry one end, knowing any struggle on her part would hurt Kafka more.

The march back through the forest was quiet. The Romans had threatened Lucan's life if either of their other captives were to call for help. Apparently, Marius was adamant about their capturing Kafka and Guinevere but would not be overly angered by the deat of the boy.

The silence of the forest soon gave way to laughing and jeering from the soldiers when they had reached the road that led to Marius's villa. The soldiers made fun of Kafka being wounded. They derided Guinevere, one of the fearsome Woads, for being taken alive not once but twice. They even mocked Lucan for his tears of fear and confusion.

It was the last offence that finally drove Guinevere to speak.

"I will kill each of you and enjoy it," she hissed.

The men only laughed.

"And when I have sent you to the judgment of your gods, I will tear your master's throat out," she promised.

"Stop, Guin," Kafka rasped from her place on the stretcher. "Don't antagonize them."

When it came to defending herself, Guinevere was able to keep a reasonable rein on her temper. When those she cared about were being attacked, in word or deed, she tended to let her temper get the better of her. This Kafka knew, but she also knew now was not the time to be careless.

Marius was so pleased with the news that the gladiator and the Woads had been captured that he rushed to gates of his villa to see the spectacle for himself. What he saw, though, dampened his glee. The gladiator lay on her front on a stretcher. A soldier carried one end of it, and the Woad woman appeared to be bound to the other end. The boy followed, bound and bruised, trying to stay as close to the two women as possible.

"Which of you fools wounded her?" Marius demanded as soon as the group was safely inside the gate. "I ordered you to bring them to me unhurt."

"It was an accident, my lord," the officer in charge of the soldiers said. "She fought too fiercely. We could not capture her without wounding her."

"Who wounded her?" Marius demanded again.

"Gaius did, my lord," the officer replied.

"Twenty lashes," Marius barked.

Kafka was drifting in and out of consciousness, hearing and understanding only pieces of what was going on. Guinevere, though, was appalled to learn that the Roman treated his own people as terribly as he treated hers. Were all Romans such heartless beasts, she wondered.

As the condemned man was hauled off, the officer and Guinevere carried Kafka to the stable, where a healer would be sent to treat her. Marius had informed the Woad and the gladiator that they were unworthy to set foot in his mansion even as prisoners. In her dazed state, Kafka was amused by the information: she had been housed in Marius's mansion when Demetrius had brought her there. Apparently, Marius considered slaves more worthy than prisoners.

The next moon passed in a haze for Kafka. Marius's healer kept her sedated on his master's orders while her wound healed. When she was conscious, the only thing she was aware of was the pain radiating from her back and the voice of the healer, telling her she needed to sleep.

For Guinevere and Lucan the month was far more unpleasant. Guinevere had been sent to work in Marius's fields like a slave. He had threatened Lucan and Kafka's lives if she refused to obey him, and she was left with little choice. So, Guinevere spent her days working in Marius's fields and her nights tending to Kafka.

Once a month had passed and Kafka's back wound had begun healing well, Marius allowed his healer to stop sedating Kafka. The pain from her wound was still a problem for her, but she forced herself to work through the pain. She would not remain an invalid while in the custody of Marius the Roman.

As Kafka regained her strength, she and Lucan were sent to work in Marius's fields with Guinevere. Marius intended to use the time in the fields to break Guinevere and Kafka to his will, to humble them. What he failed to realize was that Guinevere and Kafka spent as much of their time in the fields as possible plotting their escape. They only waited on Kafka's health before they tried to make good their plans.

After a month of working for Marius, Kafka's back was nearly fully healed. She and Guinevere had decided that they would try to make their escape on the night of the new moon, hoping their absence would go unnoticed until the next morning. As soon as Marius's healer had delivered the good news of Kafka's almost complete recovery to him, though, he called for Kafka and Guinevere both to be brought to his arena.

Soon the captives found themselves standing on familiar sands. "I've had this dream before," Guinevere muttered. Kafka nodded.

"At least Lucan isn't here this time," she murmured back. Lucan had been left with the other workers in the field when Guinevere and Kafka had been rounded up.

Marius's glee at having the two fighters who had killed his gladiators and lived to tell the tale was obvious to any who cared to look. Kafka was thoroughly disgusted at his bloodthirstiness. Guinevere pointedly refused to look at him as he settled himself more comfortably in his little box.

"Gladiator, Woad, you will fight," Marius announced grandly.

Guinevere openly gaped at the Roman's arrogant demand. She could hardly believe he could expect them to do as he said without question. She and Kafka were Woads, proud and free warriors, not slaves to be commanded.

Kafka only shook her head. She had expected no less over the last two months. It would have been too much to expect Marius to realize they would not be broken to his commands.

"I am no longer a gladiator," Kafka shouted. "Demetrius freed me."

"And I have captured you. You are now my slave, my gladiator, and you will fight the Woad," Marius stated calmly.

Kafka looked to Guinevere. She would no longer let herself be a slave. She was free now; she would remain free for the rest of her life, no matter how long that may be. She only hoped that Guin would understand her choice.

Guinevere nodded silently in answer to question in Kafka's eyes.

"I will not fight for you, Marius," Kafka called back.

"My archers will kill you," Marius warned.

"You may kill me, but you may not command me," Kafka yelled.

"Pagan. Slave," Marius screamed. Even in her dire situation, Kafka found herself amused at the way Marius's eyes bulged out of his head as he screamed.

"I am no slave," Kafka yelled. "Not your, not anyone's"

"You will fight, or you will die," Marius yelled back.

"But I choose," Kafka murmured to herself.

Marius turned to the archer standing beside him. He said something that Kafka and Guinevere could not make out from their distance. The archer turned to Kafka, pulling his bow to full draw.

"He will fire if I give the word," Marius threatened.

"I am not your slave," Kafka cried.

Marius raised his hand, motioning to his archer. The man released his arrow, which streaked toward Kafka. She fully expected to be killed; she had no doubt that Marius would have her killed.

The arrow buried its head in the sand at Kafka's feet. Despite her resolution to show no reaction, she jumped, startled. Through her surprise, she could hear Marius laughing at her.

"The next will hit you," he warned.

"I do not fear you," Kafka called back. "I am free."

This was her decision. She would die as she had been able to live for such a short time: free. She was born free; she would die free, and no one could take that from her.

Kafka shut her eyes, tipped her face back to the warm sun, opened her arms to the cool breeze, and waited for Marius's decision. "Let it come," she murmured. "I am not afraid." She never even heard the second arrow being fired.

Guinevere cried out as Kafka staggered back a step with an arrow lodged in her chest. She had seen the arrow loosed and heard the hollow thud of this impact and the rush of air from Kafka's lungs when it struck. She rushed forward to catch Kafka about the shoulders, easing her to the ground as her legs failed her.

"I am free," Kafka wheezed as she looked up at the sky.

"Always free," Guinevere reassured as Kafka's eyes fluttered shut one last time.

"Woad," Marius shouted at Guinevere. "You will fight or you will also die."

Guinevere stood, turning to look coldly into Marius's eyes to give her answer. Tears fell from her eyes, but she met Marius's glare unflinchingly. She would be no less courageous than Kafka had been.

"Kafka was not born a Woad, but she was one with us in spirit. Just as she was not your slave, I am not your slave. I will not fight for you."

Guinevere shut her eyes, tipped her face back to the warm sun, opened her arms to the cool breeze, and waited for Marius's decision. "I am free," she shouted at the top of her lungs.

Instead of the sound of an arrow being fired, which she expected, Guinevere was surprised by Marius's wordless scream. He had been so sure the women would do as he commanded. Now, with one dead as an example and the other still openly defying him, Marius was infuriated.

"Guards," he shrieked. "Fetch the boy. Take the girl. Give them both to the priests."

Guinevere was confused as several guards tackled her and began dragging her out of the arena. She never would have thought Marius would have Kafka killed but spare her and Lucan both. And why would he have them given to his Roman priests?

"You will regret your pride in refusing me," Marius hissed as Guinevere was dragged past. "They will see to that."

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A/N: And we pretty well know where it goes from there. Hope everyone enjoyed it. As always, reviews are welcome.


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